What was Matt Long doing here five long years after he’d left?
Jenny had hoped to never see him again.
When he stepped out of the truck, still as gorgeous as ever, Jenny’s traitorous heart twitched, but she forced it to settle down. Fast. Shallow charm and a killer grin wouldn’t turn her head this time around. She’d learned her lesson when he’d run out on her.
He could no longer set her skin on fire. The only heat that burned within her for him now was anger.
“You have a lot of nerve coming back to Ordinary,” she said. “Especially after the way you left. You couldn’t have said goodbye? Or left a note?”
He stopped when he saw her. His mouth dropped open then just as quickly closed. The line of his jaw became hard. Then he shrugged.
No conscience.
Good to know. She felt better about the decisions she’d made. She’d been right to do what she’d done, and to hell with Matt’s feelings. They weren’t her concern.
Dear Reader,
Sometimes the best things in life are the surprises.
Just when we think we have everything figured out, and know exactly where we want our lives to go, surprises send us for a loop, raise their figurative heads and say, “You might want to rethink where you’re headed.”
Matthew Long first appeared in No Ordinary Cowboy as a love ’em and leave ’em cowboy, but I wasn’t ready to love him and leave him. I knew he had a whole lot more going on than he let the world see.
Matt believes he would make a terrible father, but once he sees Jesse for the first time and realizes that Jesse is his son, his life changes irrevocably.
The question then is whether Matt is up to the challenge, but we romance readers expect a lot from our heroes and our heroes hate to disappoint us.
Sometimes the things we most fear, brought on by those uncontrollable surprises in life, stand up and shout, “Sure your life was okay the way you planned it, but you’re going to love this even more!”
Enjoy Matt’s story!
Mary Sullivan
This Cowboy’s Son
Mary Sullivan
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mary Sullivan loves writing about children. That’s why you’ll find them in many of her stories. She loves to watch how they affect us in real life and then writes about how they affect her heroes and heroines. If we allow them to, children can challenge us as parents and caregivers and extended family members and in society as a whole to be the best that we can be. Readers can reach her through her Web site at www.MarySullivanbooks.com.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
WIND WHIPPED through the valley and howled around the old house like a widow keening.
A crack of thunder shook the earth. Rain pelted the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it away, blurring the outline of the cabin.
Matthew Long swore he could hear years-dead voices whispering things better left unsaid. Grief clung to this place like a bad dream, still breathed his father’s obscenities and his mother’s lunatic ravings.
He wished that Jenny Sterling could have found somewhere else to ride out this storm other than the house he’d grown up in.
Lightning flashed the midnight sky with midday brightness, exposing a still life of the land on which Matt had hoped to never again step foot. Weeds had obliterated any trace of the small garden his mother had once planted in the yard. A hole the size of a pebble marred one of the living room’s windows.
The flat roof of the veranda listed like a drunken sailor.
The house looked forgotten and lonesome.
Warm light flickered in the cabin’s windows and wood smoke scented the air. Jenny had started a fire.
Matt couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to go in there and drag her back home to the Sheltering Arms. Hank might be a friend, but he was also their employer. The little idiot needed to apologize for the argument she’d started with Hank’s guest, Amy.
He turned off the engine and jumped out of the truck.
In the few seconds it took him to cross the muddy path between the truck and the veranda, the wind picked up, bending the trees beside the house horizontal and soaking him to the skin with driving rain.
The aged floorboards creaked beneath him with every step he took. He had to put effort into pushing the warped door while it groaned its resistance before finally opening.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He hadn’t been in here since his parents had died. What was that? Ten years ago? The living room hadn’t changed one bit, except for the woman standing in front of the fireplace.
Jenny kept her back to him, ignoring him when he knew he’d made enough noise entering to rouse the dead.
Soft candlelight shone on her bare back, lit the threadbare blanket that was wrapped around her and hanging below the flare of her hips. When she bent to arrange her wet clothes in front of the fire, it slipped down to her smooth, round bottom, and anger forged a trail through him.
She had a lot of nerve ruining a perfectly good friendship by growing up. Matt didn’t care how unreasonable that sounded.
A gust of wind through the open doorway blew his hat from his head but he caught it in one hand.
The cold air raised goose bumps on Jenny’s skin. Even though the candlelight was too dim for him to be sure, he swore he could see them. But then, he’d noticed everything about her lately, like her curves and the new way she walked, swinging her hips too much.
Feminine curves and cowgirl strength. A stunning combination, never mind that she was feisty and fun, and made him feel bad to the bone.
His horsing-around-buddy was a better person than he could ever be, without even trying. She just was.
And now she was a grown woman.
Matt stepped into the room and slammed the door. The cabin seemed to get smaller, becoming too intimate. He rapped his hat against his thigh, spraying water across the wood floor, and threw it across the room to land on the kitchen table.
Jenny straightened, turned and looked at him with the eyes of a woman. Damn. No longer the kid he could toss into the pond when she got mouthy, she’d started to watch him with awareness, making his skin itch and his groin scream for attention.
Looking at her, he felt that old devil, yearning, swamp him. Yearning for what? For a warm body to sink into? Hell, any number of girls in town offered that regularly. For a comfort that would ease his soul? He could always wander into Reverend Wright’s